Settling
by Skalidra
Summary: Bruce and Clark have been at odds since the foundation of the Justice League. Bruce is the alpha, and only sees Clark as one more super-powered being to prove himself superior to, and Clark absolutely refuses to back down. Eventually, Diana gets fed up with their posturing, and locks the two of them inside a room to settle things. So they do. - Hinted Clark/Bruce, A/B/O.
1. Chapter 1

So, I got totally distracted by a couple of A/B/O universe ideas, and just went ahead and wrote them. This is the first. Enjoy! (More notes after, because what I want to talk about is spoilers for the story).

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"He's not that bad."

"He's _infuriating_ ," I get out through my teeth, only steel control keeping my hands loose enough to continue my work on the screen in front of me. "I don't know why I ever agreed to the idea of this team. Especially with _him_ styling himself as our leader." My jaw flexes. "He's _not_."

"You know why you agreed," Diana inserts, gripping my shoulder with enough force that I can feel it through my armor. "You had the debate with yourself a hundred times and we both know it." I can smell her; as always, Diana is _completely_ unconcerned with broadcasting to anyone and everyone who cares to look that she is a warrior, an alpha, and fully capable of destroying anyone who dares to treat her otherwise. It's better that we both decided to avoid that potential landmine.

Alphas occasionally find happiness with each other, but it's a rare couple in a thousand. Most people can't handle the clash of wills. Plus, I can't imagine Diana submitting herself to a male's control, and I know that my instincts would demand that I try to make her. It was a bad idea to begin with, and we're better off as friends and allies. I trust her skills implicitly, and I trust her with my back.

I do _not_ trust her opinion of Superman. Of _Clark_.

Diana sits down on the console, forcing me to shut off the keyboard so she doesn't accidently activate anything, and making me pay attention to her. "He can be stubborn," she grants, "but that would be the pot calling the kettle black, Bruce." One of her heels flicks to lightly hit my thigh, and I bite back the instinct that wants me to turn and snap at her to back away. I'd win a clash of wills with Diana, but that's not the point. My anger isn't aimed at her. "You have simply never found a target you could not intimidate before." The smirk curling her mouth tells me that she knows she's right, and slowly I force myself to breathe out and ease just a little bit of the tension in my muscles.

I _am_ self-aware enough to know that my frustration with Clark's behavior comes from the fact that he has never _once_ backed down when we clashed. Others intervene, or emergencies draw us away, but neither of us has ever taken the losing side of a verbal fight. It bothers me to have someone in my circle of allies with which the order of rank has not been established, it _bothers_ me that I'm not sure of where I stand with him. Diana is right, I've never met someone who I couldn't intimidate or manipulate into at least slight submission. Even Hal, who is an incredibly arrogant alpha that unfortunately has the power to back his attitude up, eventually agreed that I was the unspoken leader of the two of us. He _backed down_.

"Why do you not simply begin a challenge?" Diana asks, as if it's the most obvious solution in the world. To her, I suppose it is. Things are simpler among the Amazons, they're a warrior race. Fighting for position and dominance seems to be as natural to them as their frank honesty.

"It's not that simple," I try and explain. "We have other responsibilities, and I do not have time to engage in something as _absurd_ as that." Absurd, because I am _better_. I have always been better, and I made sure of that. One Kryptonian farm boy isn't going to sweep my feet out from under me.

"There are the rest of us," Diana points out. "You have the time. What is the real reason, Bruce?"

My jaw clenches tight again, and then — out of respect for her — I grudgingly admit, "I have no interest in an audience, Diana." I see her hand twitch towards the lasso at her side, and I set my jaw. She doesn't make a move for it, even though she clearly wants to.

Instead, she holds my gaze. "You are concerned you might lose," she declares. Before I can do more than draw a sharp breath in, my shoulders rising and my instincts _snapping_ to the front of my mind, Diana is continuing. "Would that be so bad?" she asks. "At least then the uncertainty would be over." She pushes up to her feet, and then rests one hand on her hip and rolls her shoulders in a shrug. "It is only your pride that insists you must be the leader of any group, Bruce. Your contribution is invaluable to the team and we all recognize that. Not being at the very top of the ladder will not change how we see you; you have already proven you deserve your spot among us."

She waits for a moment, like she thinks I'm really going to dignify that idea with an answer, and then steps away and heads across the room without another word. I allow myself one grind of my teeth before I turn back to the computer and reactivate the keyboard.

It's not even worth considering. Dominance fights are messy, unreliable, and uncouth. Alfred would have my head if I lowered myself to starting a _fight_ to prove that I'm superior to Clark. And there is a fraction of truth to Diana's accusation. His irritating behavior and unwillingness to submit aside, Clark is a Kryptonian. His list of powers is worrying at best and frightening at worst, and he doesn't have enough weaknesses for me to be comfortable engaging him on a physical level. There is a large chance that yes, I _would_ lose. Without taking advantage of those very few weaknesses, there's no doubt that any fight between us would end in my defeat.

It's not a chance I'm willing to take. At least not yet. I've managed to prove myself to every single other person without resorting to violence; one Kryptonian won't make me succumb to my baser instincts.

It doesn't help that there _is_ a part of me that's wary of Clark. A part of me that is entertaining the idea that he might _actually_ be better than me, and that challenging him up front won't do anything but confirm that. I'm not willing to let myself be controlled by instincts, and I will _not_ listen to that part of me. Once upon a time, I didn't think that I could match up to even half of the alphas that existed in the world. Determination and strength of will got me farther than I used to believe I could ever be, and studying body language and _precisely_ the right signals or words to say to shake potential threats did the rest. If I can unnerve another alpha with the right expression, or a few carefully chosen words, I've already won.

I shrug the issue off for now, returning my full attention to the computer and the information splayed across the screens. It's just a few leads on some larger scale cases, the ones I've picked up that strayed out of Gotham. I try not to involve the League with my jobs, but while I'm on duty up here I may as well do real work instead of just watching monitors and coordinating any of our members on the ground. I am more than capable of multitasking.

However involved I am in my various projects, I still don't miss it when the main door to the rest of the Watchtower opens. I glance sideways, flipping through the security feeds of the Watchtower until I reach the one displaying this room. Then I tense a little bit, and save my work before shutting it down. Too late to stop him reading it, if he wanted to, but there's nothing I can do about it.

I turn the chair, and instinct gets me to my feet to face the two oncoming figures. Diana, with Clark at her heels. Clark looks a little bewildered, but he's clearly humoring her. Who knows exactly what she's told him, but I have a theory about what she wants from both of us now. It's not hard to guess.

She stops, crosses her arms, and looks between both of us. Clark offers her a small smile, even if he clearly doesn't understand why he's here. I don't bother faking anything to hide my displeasure.

"Diana…" I start, my tone low with warning.

"This has gone on long enough," she announces. "We are a team, and your struggle to define your positions is causing tension for more than just you fools. The two of you need to settle this; however that happens." Clark has dropped that small smile, and is starting to look like he severely regrets allowing Diana to pull him in here. "Do not destroy the Watchtower, and do not destroy each other."

She turns on one heel, heading for the exit, and Clark turns around to stay facing her. "Diana—" he tries, a pleading note to his voice, but she cuts him off.

"Cyborg is removing all power to this room except what is required for life support," she calls, without turning around. "You will be locked in. When you have come to an agreement, I'm sure one of you can figure out how to contact us to let you out."

On cue, the second the door closes behind her the light clicks out. It's only a fraction of a second before the emergency backup power starts with a low hum that I recognize from running trials of the emergency system, but the moment of darkness still makes me tense a bit. This is space, and if something _did_ go wrong, I wouldn't survive it. Not likely, anyway. Humans aren't meant for unprotected space travel.

I take a glance around, confirming that all electronics in the room are either on emergency power, or shut off. Cyborg is efficient, I'll give him that.

Clark sighs, and I reluctantly return my gaze to him. "I suppose we should talk."

"Why?" I demand. "Either of us could escape this room within minutes. I'm not letting any of them force me into a confrontation." I turn, heading to the console and sinking down next to it. I can hear Clark sigh as I pry the panel off the front of the stand to get at the wires. The sound raises my shoulders a bit, and each successive footstep as he moves closer makes me struggle not to pull them higher. I focus on the tangle of wires, examining them and bringing my memories of the plans to the front of my mind.

"What are you doing?" he asks, leaning sideways to peer down over my shoulder.

"Reactivating power," I snap.

"Cyborg's shut it off," he points out, and my jaw clenches. "He'll keep it off."

I slowly turn, looking up at Clark and forcing my mouth to stay in a flat line and not rise in a sneer. "I designed and built the Watchtower. _No one_ could gain full control of this station without my help, not even Cyborg. If I want the power back on, I'll turn it back on."

Clark makes an expression that looks a bit like distaste. "You always keep this much secret from us, Bruce?" I don't dignify that with an answer, turning back to the panel. He turns, sits down on the console and crosses his arms. "She's right, you know. We do need to settle this. If we clash when we're in the middle of a real fight—"

I jerk my head up, and now I _do_ sneer. " _I_ would never let my instincts interfere with my capability on a battlefield, Clark. If they interfere with _yours_ , that's your problem."

There's a moment of silence where Clark's jaw clenches, and then he says, "You're really kind of an uncooperative ass, you know that?" I snort, and lower my attention back to the panel. Just a few swaps of wires should hook the console up to the shielded power source beneath it, which should stall Cyborg's attempts to shut it down long enough for me to open the door and get out. "We could at least _talk_ , Bruce."

"Talking won't solve our differences of opinion," I counter, "and talking isn't what Diana had in mind."

A beat of silence. "A fight?" Clark asks, sounding not real pleased with the idea. "That's not fair."

I stiffen, and then drop my hands away from the panel and stand. I turn to face him, keeping my hands loose at my sides through force of will. " _Excuse_ me?" I demand.

He's sitting on the console, so he's a couple inches shorter at the moment, but looking up at me doesn't seem to phase him at all. It never does. "You're not as powerful as me, Bruce," he says, his voice quiet but matter of fact. "I don't know why you pretend any different. You're human, I'm Kryptonian, that's just fact."

"And you think that makes you better?"

" _No_ ," he snaps, holding my gaze unflinchingly as he straightens up, into my space and to my height. "I think it makes me stronger. No one is trying to deny your skill, Bruce, or your intelligence, but you're _not_ the strongest person on this team. Not by a long shot. Why can't you just accept being the smartest person on the team and let go of what you're _not?_ " He shifts forward. Survival instinct says I should step back, that I'm too _close_ to what's undoubtedly a deadly threat, but I hold my ground. I _won't_ back down.

My hands clench. "You," I start, grinding my words between my teeth, "are not my superior, or my leader. I will _not_ accept you as either."

He looks startled for a moment, and then his whole expression tightens down. "Then maybe Diana's right."

Before I have time to fully understand the implications of that sentence there's a hand gripping the fabric of my cape, at the front of my throat, and dragging me in. Before my muscles can do more than tense in preparation for struggle he's slammed me down into the ground, and it's hard enough to arch my back and knock the air out of me even through my armor. No broken bones though, he's holding back. My chest burns, and I swallow back the breathless groan and glare up at him. I swing up at his head — bad angle, not enough force — expecting him to let it bounce off his invulnerable jaw, but to my surprise he lets go of me and shifts back enough that it misses him.

It's a better distraction than I was aiming for, and I get my stolen piece of kryptonite out of my belt and into my other hand apparently without being noticed. I push up, following his slight retreat, and lash out with my now reinforced hand.

I can see the reaction in him before it hits, see the slight widening of his eyes and then the pain even before my fist crashes into his jaw and knocks him sideways and off me. He hits the ground, and I roll to get up to my knees and then raise my hand for another blow. But his head is rising, eyes glowing red, and before I can take my second shot a blast of targeted lasers slices through the air and hits the kryptonite. I let go in reflex — I do _not_ need holes in my hand — and as I watch the kryptonite disintegrates underneath his power. It only takes about half of a second, barely enough time for me to start to pull back, and then he's following me. He's faster than I could ever hope to be.

He slams me down, just hard enough to knock the air out of me _again_ , and then drags me up. All the way into the air, holding me by both my shoulders, which my muscles do _not_ appreciate. My weight was not made to be taken just by a grip like this, not for long.

"Give it up, Bruce," Clark says, completely calm. Like he _isn't_ holding me thirty feet up in the air. "You can't beat me and we both know it."

I snarl twisting and dragging myself up so I can lash both feet out towards his chest. It won't do anything, but I can't stomach doing _nothing_. It's not a smart idea, and honestly I'm more likely to break my own ankles than I am to hurt him, but there's a tiny chance. I don't know the limits of Clark's invulnerability, and I don't know exactly how fast he recovers from kryptonite. Maybe he's still tender enough this might sting.

He lets go, and I'm so _completely_ unprepared for that that I just fall for a precious second, before reaction catches up. I twist and snap my cape out, slowing myself just a little and realizing it's going to be a rough landing. Thirty feet straight down, with only my armor to protect me and a couple of seconds to minimize the force, is going to hurt. It doesn't help that my angle is _just_ wrong.

I hit the console with my right side — feel a rib crack — and then roll off it to the floor. I clench my jaw to swallow back the exclamation of pain, and only manage to start to push myself up before a hand as strong as steel is clamping around the back of my neck. Clark holds me down, shoving me into the floor until I have to twist my head sideways to keep my face from being pressed into the metal. I fight the grip, but no matter how I struggle it doesn't budge his fingers so much as a fraction of an inch. Rib makes things harder, chest still aches from the slams against the floor, can't get any leverage held down like this, but I still have the supplies in my utility belt.

I consider and discard the idea of electricity, smoke, any form of gas, or any bladed weapon or explosive. All of those are more likely to hurt me than even make him pause. That brings my arsenal down to a very limited selection, and most of those I know still aren't enough to do damage to someone with his powers. But I _do_ have a charm from Zatanna in my belt. Nothing big, just a relatively minor amulet that — when activated by a few choice words — delivers a blast of magical energy against whoever it's aimed at. Magic seems to affect Clark the same as it affects anyone else, so that might be enough to at least stun him. A second blast might even knock him out for me.

My hand slides under my cape, disguised as another push at getting him off me. At least, I think it's disguised, until Clark's free hand drags the cape away from my back and grabs my hand the second the belt's compartment is open. He twists it behind my back, and I bite my tongue to not cry out at how my shoulder is being strained backwards. I've taken worse, from worse people. Whatever this might be, Clark is still a hero. He won't kill me, he won't permanently hurt me, and he's not going to injure me badly enough to take me out of play for very long. I'm almost positive.

"I can hear the click of your belt," he comments, sounding just a little irritated. "The sound of your heartbeat changes when you've got a plan, you know that? I'll _always_ know when you're about to make a real move, Bruce. It's unconscious, you can't control that." He pulls my shoulder up another inch; my breath catches as I feel the joint _grind_ in a way that threatens real damage. If he lets me go now I'll just have bruises and strained muscles, but if he pulls any farther… "Give up, Bruce. For once in your life accept that someone else is stronger."

I force my mouth into a sneer, and then figure out exactly where he is and lash out with my free arm. Again, to my complete surprise, he lets go of me. What is going on?

I ignore the sharp twinges of pain from my shoulder as I roll up to standing, twisting to find Clark and keep my eyes on him. He stands still for just long enough for me to take everything in, and _then_ darts at me. Faster than is possible for a human, too fast for me to react with anything but an instinctive, wild roundhouse of a punch from the arm with my aching shoulder. He slips around it like any speedster, like he sees the world in slow motion, and grabs me long before I can follow the strike up with something more accurate. Being dragged across the room feels like being pulled along by a speeding car, and getting slammed into the wall is the inevitable impact with the pavement.

Clark's hands are wrapped around my upper arms, just above my elbows, and he's in my face. I've got no illusions about the fact that he can probably hear that my breath is a little unstable, thanks to this being the _third_ time the air has been knocked out of me, plus the cracked rib. I don't let it stop me.

I kick out at his knee, and he shifts to the side and lets it graze harmlessly past him. My second kick doesn't fair any better. Then he's letting go of my arms, but my temporary freedom only lasts long enough for him to wrap his left hand around my throat and pin my head back. I gasp in a breath, ready for the squeezing pressure around my trachea, but it doesn't come. He just holds me, his mouth a grim line and his eyes slightly narrowed.

"I don't want to hurt you," he tells me, still frustratingly calm. "Give in, Bruce. Submit, and this can end right here."

I grip his wrist with my right hand, trying to figure out any kind of way out of this that doesn't require calling outside help, or one of the two useful sources — kryptonite, or the amulet — of attack that I no longer possess. Unfortunately, nothing comes to mind. I was _not_ prepared for a fight with Superman, not on such short notice, not without time to _plan_. I have my plans, but all of them would have required different circumstances. This isn't right.

" _No_ ," I grit out. It's probably not intelligent, it's definitely not a good choice for my continued health, but I _won't_. I will not allow anyone to bully me into accepting them as a superior. Not _anyone_. No one ever has, and no one ever will.

Instinct has too much of a grip on me, and I know it, but I don't have quite enough control to stop myself from lashing out at his face. His free hand comes up, pressing to the inside of my arm and easily sliding up to divert my blow to the side. He lets go of my throat to do the same to my next strike, and then slides just far enough out of the way to avoid a downwards heel stomp at his boot. I edge to the side, lashing out but trying to angle myself to get out from between him and the wall. My fist barely grazes his neck, because of _course_ he moves out of the way, but his hand grips my shoulder and throws me back in against the unyielding metal.

I fight for a while longer. It's frustrating, _infuriating_ , but every strike I have he either turns aside or dodges completely, and every time I try to move away from being trapped he slams me back into place like some kind of errant child. Like this is a tantrum. Like he's _humoring_ me.

Not even my stamina can last forever.

Finally one of his slams hits at just the wrong angle, and I gasp and fold in on my injured side, grasping at it out of instinctive reaction to the pain. I'm exhausted, I'm aching, and the suit feels like it's weighing me down more than it's protecting me. The pain is just another weight on top of the rest, and it's finally enough to make me break down for a couple of moments. Clark's hand is pressing my shoulder into the wall, and I'm ashamed to admit that it's probably one of the only reasons I didn't drop to my knees. He probably knows that too.

My head is bowed, my breath coming in harsh pants, but I still manage to tense up when his hand slides from my shoulder to my throat. Slowly, he pushes my head back against the wall, arching my throat a little bit as he presses my jaw upwards with his thumb. He doesn't say anything, but his other hand comes forward and slides across my cheek. I wince and close my eyes when it hooks beneath the edge of my cowl, and then he pushes the mask away from my face. I keep my eyes closed for a moment, feeling the cowl settle near the back of my neck, and then look up to meet his eyes.

Instinct is swimming at the front of my mind, and slowly, _painfully_ , I realize I've been beaten. Clark's proven he's more than powerful enough to defeat me, and like it or not I can feel myself settling into accepting him as an alpha higher in the totem pole than me. The only thing left is for him to solidify that position, and my jaw tightens at the thought of those indestructible teeth anywhere on my skin. It's going to hurt. That, I'm sure about.

His hand slides to the side, baring some of my throat, and my jaw clenches a little tighter. "I have a role outside the suit," I tell him, keeping my voice quiet. It's as much of a concession as I'm willing to make. "I'd _appreciate_ it if you'd be subtle."

Clark watches me for a moment, and then gives a slow nod. "I understand." His hands swap, the right gripping my neck while the left lowers to the part of my suit. The way he immediately finds the hidden catch and zipper tells me that I _really_ need to update my suit. Specifically, with lead. I don't need him knowing exactly how to work it with a single glance.

He pulls it down, parting it along the center of my chest. My breath catches, and then as it hits my low stomach his hand tightens a touch on my throat. He pushes me up the wall, suspending me by his grip on my neck, and I automatically grab at his wrist with both of my hands. Not that it does anything. I can lift myself enough to ease some of the pressure, and make it possible for me to breathe, but I'm not going to be able to escape without his cooperation.

"I've beaten you, Bruce. Submit." It sounds ritualistic, it _is_ ritualistic, and I shudder. Still my mouth curls in a snarl, as the last remnants of my pride and my status as _the_ alpha slam back into control. His hand tightens a touch more, and then his free hand is pulling my suit to the side, baring more of my chest. " _Submit_ ," he demands.

I can't see more than the top of his head at this angle, and then only if I crane my gaze downwards, but I _feel_ it when his teeth clamp down over my side. Above a rib — thankfully, the side _not_ containing the already cracked one — and hard, digging into my skin until I have to release a groan of pain. Still, it's not enough. I can feel _that_ too. I feel it right up until his jaw tightens down, and his teeth break my skin. I shout, arching into his grip and digging my fingers in against his wrist.

Instinct shuts me down a moment later, and I give in to the feeling of his teeth in my skin and the hand at my throat. My eyes close, and my hands ease to a light grip on his wrist instead of the bone breaking force I was using before. His teeth dig in a bit harder for a second, and then he pulls away. The bite stings as the air hits it, and I can feel blood trickle down my side. Carefully, Clark lowers me back down the wall, and lets me get my feet underneath me. My hands fall away, and my eyes open as Clark's grip loosens and he tilts my jaw up with his fingertips.

My breathing is slow and even, and I'm self-aware enough to recognize the relaxation as due to the instinctive chemical rush of submission pumping through me, but that doesn't make me any less prey to it. Clark leans in, and for one _bizarre_ moment I think he's going to kiss me, until his head lowers, and his mouth presses to the jut of my Adam's apple instead. There's just a tiny graze of teeth behind the movement, but it shuts down every last part of me even considering challenging him again. I'm half-aware of him pulling my suit back together, and resecuring the catch at the hollow of my throat. His mouth pulls away from my neck, and his fingers let my jaw lower a little bit.

I watch Clark, and not even his smile and soft laugh are enough to bring me out of my chemical-induced haze. "You," he starts, his voice soft and with a touch of laughter, "are the most stubborn, frustrating person I think I've ever met."

I swallow, and slowly find my voice. "Same to you." His fingertips are still resting lightly against my jaw, and that stabilizes me enough for me to draw in a deeper breath and admit, "I've never met someone I couldn't intimidate. I— I thought I knew all the tricks."

His thumb sweeps across my skin, and I ease a little further. "You do. I've seen you use them to keep control of the rest of the League. If I was like the rest of you, it probably would have worked on me too." I have time for the twitch of an eyebrow in confusion, and then he's smiling a little ruefully. "Kryptonians don't have the same genders as humans, Bruce. I'm male, but that's it. I don't have an orientation like all of you. I can smell the pheromones most of you give off, and I might have been raised as an alpha, but I don't have the instincts. None of it affects me."

That… Well, that would make sense of a lot of things. If Clark was missing or ignoring my body language and social cues because he _lacks_ the instinct required to be threatened by it, it would explain why I was never able to intimidate him like everyone else. It still makes him as stubborn and determined as I am, which is a bit frustrating, but if he wasn't doing it out of instinct like I was, it's more tolerable. Just a bit.

I work my jaw for a moment, chewing my words, and then meet his gaze. "This still stands. You have my—" The word sticks in my throat, and I tense up just a little bit.

Clark's hand reaffirms its grip a bit, along the side of my jaw. The increased contact, and firmness, banishes the tension. Whoever taught Clark to fake alpha instincts, and knowledge, taught him _very_ well. "I don't need it, Bruce." I stare at him, and he smiles again. "It's kind of incredible to see you _not_ one step from looking like you're going to tear out my throat, but you don't have to act like this."

"What do you mean?" I manage.

His hand eases, and his knuckles fall to rest against the side of my neck. "I don't need your submission, Bruce. Honestly, the only reason I pressed this is because I knew _you_ needed this to be settled." It's starting to click together in my head, and Clark gives an easy shrug and an even easier smirk. "Yeah, I'm stronger, but we both know you're smarter than me, Bruce. You have a _brilliant_ mind, and I would never make you hold your tongue just to give me some kind of satisfaction of being strongest. _You_ are the best leader we could ask for, and everyone here knows it. I'm not going to take that position from you."

"Good," is what comes out of my mouth, before I can even consider why it might be a bad idea. The chemicals are starting to fade out of my system, allowing me to take real control of my actions again. There's still enough to keep me quiet, and enough to make me differ to the power of the apparently _not_ an alpha in front of me, but my mind is returning bit by bit.

Clark snorts. "Stubborn," he whispers, but he's smiling. "You'd never actually accept me as your leader, would you?"

I watch him for a few moments, and then make a quiet, non-committal noise. "Instinct would demand that I did," I admit. "Until I found a way to ensure I won a second challenge." That seems to almost pull a laugh from him, but he doesn't say anything. "If you're not taking that position, what was the point of this?"

"To settle things," he answers easily, "and because I need you to _listen_ to me, you stubborn bastard. We can't fight just for the sake of fighting, it doesn't work and this team will fall apart before we've even got it completely built." His hand drops away from my neck, but he doesn't step away quite yet. I'm halfway convinced that he's listening to the minute changes in my heartbeat and breathing to back off in increments small enough to keep me halfway affected, without irritating me with continued contact. In fact, I'm certain of it. "I really don't care who the rest of the team thinks won this, Bruce. But when I think you're wrong I'm going to fight you on it, and I need you to listen to me when I do. You're smart, but even you don't see all the angles all the time. When we argue, and _oh_ we're going to," I can't help cracking a smirk, "we need to be able to talk it out without having this rank issue hanging over our heads. Agreed?"

I let out a slow breath, and then concede, "Agreed. It sounds like you've thought this through?" My mind is flicking through different possibilities, and what the _best_ way to make all of this work is, but it sounds like he's been thinking about this for a while. Even if it wasn't in the context of a fight.

"A little," Clark admits, still holding my gaze. "They should think you won, right? That eliminates any thoughts of challenging you, wouldn't it?" He gives a slightly embarrassed smile, and raises one shoulder in a shrug. "I learned all the theories, but I can be a little fuzzy on how the dynamics of humans actually play out in practice."

"Yes," I answer simply. "It's possible, if they believe you won the challenge, that it would push some of the ones less firmly under my control to make a play and see if they could do the same. Hal, almost definitely. Perhaps Diana. If they believe I won, it cements my position almost without question. It doesn't have to be a very secure win; that would allow you to continue challenging me without it raising questions."

"Pretty sure you're overthinking this," he comments. "Alright, then I just need a mark, right?"

I eye the skin of his throat skeptically. "I'd break my jaw before I broke your skin," I point out, with a bit of snap to my tone.

Where exactly the small box in Clark's hand comes from, I don't know, but I take it when he hands it to me. "Here," he murmurs. "Someone needs to hang onto that for me, and I don't think I trust anyone to use it wisely more than I trust you."

I flick it open, and he recoils about an inch. The green glow is distinctive, and I study the ring for a moment before snapping the box shut again. Clark relaxes. "After a single fight is a little early for a proposal, don't you think?" I comment sarcastically, but add just a hint of a smirk to the end of my words to make it obvious it's teasing. He comes just shy of grinning. "I'll keep it safe. You have my word." Of course, the unspoken bit of this is that he's also trusting me to stop him, if it has to be done. This fight aside, I'm nearly sure I can. "Ready, Clark?"

His head tilts, baring the side of his throat, and his almost-grin lowers to a small smile. "When you are. Won't last long with my healing, so make it good."

I shift forward, into his space, and reach up with my left hand to take a handful of his hair. He lets me bend him down, resting his head at my shoulder and giving me free range at the left side of his neck as well as the back of it. I flick the box open with my free hand, and his reaction is instant. He shudders, draws in a sharp breath that's a little too quiet to be called a gasp, and presses his forehead into my armor.

Drawing this out is not a good idea, not with the effect kryptonite has on him, so I just go straight for his skin. I fit my mouth over the back left side of his neck, feeling for just a moment to make sure I'm not too near any tendons, and then clench my jaw down. He jerks and gives a groan that's clearly pain, but he doesn't shove me back so I don't stop. I bear down on the mouthful of skin between my teeth until I feel it split underneath their points, and the taste of blood touches my tongue. I bite down even harder for a moment, to cement the minor wound and make sure it sticks around for more than just a minute of time, but then let him go. The second my mouth is off his skin I snap the box shut on the kryptonite ring.

Another breath, and then he smiles as I draw back. It looks a little pained, and maybe a touch embarrassed, but it's still a smile. "Ouch," he comments, raising his hand to touch his neck. His fingers come away a little bloody, and he raises an eyebrow. "Not so used to that sight."

"Someday, I'm sure you'll get used to bleeding like the rest of us mortals." My tone is sarcastic, and I don't even try to curb it.

"I'm mortal," he defends, though he doesn't sound even the slightest bit offended. "It just takes a lot to prove it."

My mouth curls in a thin smirk, and I tuck the kryptonite away inside my belt. "Or a glowing rock." It almost feels like teasing. Like this _isn't_ the alien that just cracked one of my ribs and then held me against the wall by my throat until I gave in. I suppose, in a way, it isn't. Clark is one thing, Superman is another, and this…? I think this might be something new. Or maybe I've just never let myself see anything about Clark beyond the fact that he was a _threat_.

"Or a glowing rock," he concedes. "Ready to head out, Bruce?"

I check in with myself, making absolutely sure that I have control and that I can project the satisfied, confident air of a victorious alpha. I'm in control; it won't be a problem.

"More than," I answer easily, and then slip out from between him and the wall to lead the way to the door. "If you'd open the door?" Suddenly he's at my side, and I glance over at him as he rolls the shoulder on the side with my bite. He looks distinctly uncomfortable, like the bite is an itch he can't scratch. "Relax; if I'd actually won you'd be experiencing an automatic rush of chemicals to ease both the pain, and any leftover urge to fight."

"Does yours _sting_ this much?" he asks, sounding just a tad exasperated. Another roll of his shoulder, paired with an upwards twitch of his hand like he wants to rub or scratch at the mark.

I barely refrain from rolling my eyes. "You probably feel pain more keenly than I do," I admit, and he glances over at me in confusion. I swallow back the insult at the tip of my tongue — maybe there's a _tiny_ part of the chemicals still affecting me — and explain. "As a Kryptonian, when you do feel pain it's magnified, because you feel it so rarely. I work and live with it, most days, so I don't feel it as intensely. It's like learning to ignore certain background noises, or becoming accustomed to a smell. Pain is just another sense."

"You're a little disturbing, you know that?"

"I've been told." I stop in front of the main door. "That said, a bite directly over bone," I look over at him, pointedly, "— as in, perhaps, a _rib_ — is significantly more painful than one into the muscle of neck. So yes, it _stings_." Aches, actually, in tandem with my cracked rib, but he doesn't need to know that. Even if there is a part of me that's still floating high, and quietly insisting that my alpha needs to _know_ if I'm injured.

It concerns me just a little that the thought of Clark being _my_ alpha doesn't instantly make me bridle like it should. That has to be some leftover part of the chemicals distorting my view. Clark may be my better, but he's not an alpha and he's certainly not _my_ alpha. Even if he had the right instincts, I don't intend to submit to his rule in anything but a professional sense. I am not a beta, I'm not an omega, and no one will ever be _my_ alpha.

I am not one of the alphas in this world that thrives off challenge. I've proved to myself time and time again that I prefer the warm yield of an omega, or the sloped back and bowed head of a beta. Talia was the single exception, and Diana ended before it ever began. I am _not_ attracted to other alphas.

Clark steps forward, hooking his fingers into the slight seam of the door, and I speak before he can pry it open.

"Why did you bother dodging?" He looks back, already braced to pull the door open. "I couldn't have hurt you," I press, watching him to try and spot any involuntary body language or micro expression, "so why not let me bounce off? It would have been over faster."

He looks genuinely puzzled for a second, and then — like it's the most obvious thing in the world — he answers, "You would have broken your hands; I didn't want to hurt you, Bruce."

With a grudging sense of resignation, I realize that the slight warmth in my chest is _respect_. Oh, that's just _wonderful_.

"Ever the boy scout," I gripe, though I can't quite summon the irritation I want in my words. Judging by his flicker of a smile, I don't fool him either. "Go on, let's get this over with." He pulls, and the door drags open with a screech of metal being forced against metal. It clenches my jaw for just a second; I can't imagine what that screech sounds like to Clark's ears.

I stride out once the gap is wide enough, and Clark is just a step behind me. His footsteps are just slightly out of sync with my own, and almost unconsciously I ease my pace just a fraction so we match. I couldn't say why, but it satisfies something in me. I try not to think about why that might be. Mostly, it works. The short walk down the corridor, to the mess hall of the Watchtower, takes barely a minute, and it's blessedly silent.

The door opens in front of us, and to my complete _lack_ of surprise most of the League is there. J'onn and Arthur seem to be the only two missing.

Hal is already on his feet, and when his gaze turns up towards me he instantly breaks into a wide, sharp grin. "Bats! How's it feel to finally get your—" He cuts off, looks behind me at Clark, _stares_ for a moment as the rest of the League turns towards the two of us, and then spits out, "No _fucking_ way."

Diana's smile is a little crooked, and she's certainly watching both of us like she's trying to figure something out. "It is done?"

I glance backwards at Clark, and then give Diana a small nod. "We've settled things." The bite on my side aches with the half-truth, and to combat the slight unease I let a bit of threat enter my tone. "Don't do that again, Diana." I'm sure she will, if she ever feels the need, but voicing the warning at least brings it up between us. She might even consider not doing it for a few moments the next time.

I turn back around and head for the exit. I may have been on monitor duty before, but after this fight I consider it to be over. If anyone disagrees, they can keep it to themselves. Clark gives me a knowing look as I pass him, and a dip of his head. The way his eyes flick down to the ground for a moment reinforces that even though I now know that Clark doesn't have any of the same instincts as a human alpha, he's learned to mimic them _very_ well. That reaction even almost fools me, and I know that I wasn't the victor of our fight.

No, there definitely _isn't_ a part of me that thrills to see that slight lowering of his crystal blue gaze. Not a _single_ part of me hums with satisfaction and unconsciously slides my mouth into the tiniest of smirks. Definitely not.

The image in my head when the door closes behind me, leaving me alone in the corridor, isn't a new one. But it's never been blue eyes and windswept black hair looking up at me from between my legs, and as I take in a slightly deeper breath, and the picture slides into full on graphic video, I realize this is _very_ different than my usual fantasies. Not that it features a male, but that as I stride down the corridor and to the teleporter pad, I picture hands sliding up my sides. Pressing deliberately into half-healed bite marks, and winding higher to wrap fingers stronger than steel around my throat and press it up and back.

I jerk back to the present, and forcefully banish those images. I set my jaw a little tighter, and carefully try and exorcise all thoughts of Clark from my folder of fantasies. I'll get home, and this will all be gone. It's just a fluke, random chance, some trick of my mind. Clark isn't my type; I am _not_ attracted to alphas.

… But then, Clark's not an alpha, is he?

Well, _damn_.

* * *

Alright, so basically I thought of this idea of an A/B/O fiction, and then I went looking. I kept seeing Omega!Bruce/Alpha!Clark all over the place, which... meh. I dunno, I just don't see Bruce as an omega. I guess it's alright, it's just not what I see them as. Then, I saw one Alpha!Bruce/Alpha!Clark, which was closer to what I envisioned (except it was all aggression release and not really any actual feelings). But then I had this idea. Aliens, not necessarily bound by the (in this verse) classic A/B/O dynamics, right? So what if Clark was raised as an alpha, but being Kryptonian, he didn't actually have one of these 'genders'? So what about an Alpha!Bruce/'Gender'less!Clark? Except Clark, being Superman, is ridiculously powerful, and there's no way Bruce could beat him if he was actually serious, not without planning at least.

Anyway, this was just an idea I had, and no one else seemed to have the same one, so I wanted to get it out there in the world. XD Hope you liked it!


	2. Chapter 2

Hah! Weren't expecting to see something else for this world, were you? Well, I got a request for SuperBat, in one of my prompts - 63, 'Do Not Disturb' - and this just fit neatly into that slot, so here it is. XD Enjoy!

No **warnings** for this.

* * *

I never quite let myself believe that Clark's little for-show signs of respect are real, but I come damn close on occasion. It's hard not to, even with the memory of our fight resting in the back of my head, and the faint ache of the healing bite on my side as a physical reminder that Clark is both _immensely_ powerful, and not actually technically an alpha. It's a strange thing to adjust to, when instinct is consumed fighting itself on the issue.

Clark _did_ beat me, did force a submission out of me, and that means a large portion of my mind is — semi-rightfully — convinced that Clark is therefore my alpha, and I should be giving him far more of my obedience than I am. The rest of it is running non-stop; configuring scenarios in which I would win a fight, pointing out the moments that Clark's lack of a designation is apparent, and reminding me of the flatness of his scent now that I am aware that it's false as well.

Seeing Clark's little feigned moments of subservience — dropped eyes, his place behind my shoulder, the slight shift to be out of my way when I move — is not exactly helping clarify things to my irritatingly over-active mind. A fact that leads to me maybe snapping a little bit more than I should at both him and our teammates.

True, we haven't had one of our shouting matches since the fight — Clark objects, and I take a breath and make myself listen before continuing — and there is an ease to the League that wasn't there before, I'm just — as Dick phrased it — 'grumpy.' Honestly, the team seems to take it mostly in stride.

On the side, to keep myself in check and to channel my excess energy to something productive, I work on a rather important addition to the training room on the Watchtower. An upgrade that I'd started but never fully finished, simply because I hadn't had the time to and it required a rather precise set of calculations.

Everything proceeds more or less normally.

At least until Clark lingers after a weekly meeting, with a significant enough look that I stay in the room as well as the rest of the League files out. No one bats an eye at the two of us staying, which isn't surprising. Along with Diana, we're the unofficial leaders of the League, even if it's technically a diplomatic team in which every member has equal say. In practice, someone has to lead. Diana, Clark, and I founded the team, therefore we lead it as well. It's simple logic.

He stands from his chair, circling the table to sit down on the table in front of me, as the door closes behind the last of the rest of our team. His mouth is in a line, hands resting on one knee as he looks down at me. Clearly, whatever he has to say to me is serious, so I give it my attention. Most of my attention, anyway.

After a few moments of silence, Clark says, "You're being unfair with the rest of them." There's an almost disappointed edge to his voice, and I'm not entirely comfortable with the little spark of unease that tone raises in my chest. "You need to stop, Bruce. They don't deserve it, and it's not right for you to be taking your mood out on them when they're not the cause."

I push away the absolutely ridiculous urge to squirm, making sure that I stay still and steady underneath his gaze, and undoubtedly his ears as well. "I'm aware," I answer shortly, watching him right back. "I'll handle it."

Clark frowns, peering at me a bit more intently. "You're 'aware'? What does that mean exactly?"

I push myself to my feet, standing to my full height so — with him partially sitting on the table — I'm looking down at him instead. "It means that I've already received lectures on the subject and I am not interested in listening to yours on top of the others. I will resolve the problem as soon as possible, so you can cease worrying about it."

"Bruce—" Clark starts, and I step back and head for the door. A heavy sigh from behind me, and then equally heavy footsteps. "Bruce, just wait, would you?"

I don't. I stride towards the door instead, ignoring his voice at my back and the sound of him following. Partially out of a faint belief that if I bring this out into a public setting, he'll give up on it until he can catch me in private again.

But he doesn't.

I step past the door and Clark calls, "Bruce, _wait_." There's a tiny bit of snarl to those words, and I freeze up for half a second. More than enough time for him to come up beside me and then loop around, standing in front of me to stop me from going any further.

Then I shake it off, and curl my mouth into its own snarl. "Do _not_ try that on me," I growl back, resisting all those instincts pushing me to stop, listen, wait; anything he wants.

"Then maybe _listen_ so I won't have to," he counters. "What's going on? You've been acting off; especially around me. I know what happened, well, _happened_ , but this doesn't seem to be going away. How about you tell me what has you in this mood?"

"No."

He frowns again and shifts to stand a little more solidly in my way, which makes me want to bare my teeth and lower my gaze all at once. The conflicting desires aren't exactly helping with my irritation over not being able to find my place in relation to Clark's. It's more than a little frustrating, considering that the fight was supposed to _settle_ all of this. Perhaps it would have, if we weren't trying to give the idea that I'd won, or if I actually _had_ won. Or, maybe, if I still thought that Clark was an alpha, and my mind wasn't so frustratingly devoted to trying to usurp power from him now that I know he's _not_ one of us and instinct is less insistent about me giving in to him.

" _Bruce_ ," Clark almost threatens.

I do bare my teeth at that, just for a fraction of a second and only a tiny bit. More than enough for him to see though, and to get my point across. "It's my business, not yours. I will handle it."

Clark's voice lowers. "It _is_ my business and you know why. Bruce, come on. Talk to me. Let me help."

I study him for a moment, both hating and appreciating the calming, almost placating tinge to his voice. Then, pushing past my own unwillingness, I ask, "Are you free?"

Clark's mouth curls into an easy, warm smile. "Absolutely."

I only manage a grunt in answer to that smile, before I start forward and brush past him. "Come with me."

I swear I can _feel_ his smile at my back as he follows me, and I do my best to ignore it instead of letting myself actually react. Letting him talk is hardly something that he should be smiling over, and it absolutely does _not_ give me a little hint of satisfaction to have pleased my al— _Clark._ Not at all. I absolutely refuse to be such a slave to my own instincts that the smile of a man that I am not anything more than tentative friends with — or more accurately, allies — is enough to make me satisfied.

I lead him to the training room; thankfully, it's empty. Getting anyone else in here to leave first might have tipped others off that something was about to happen. As it is, my codes lock the door and disable the security cameras and no one will be the wiser. Whoever is on monitor duty — Diana, I believe — might see the disabled cameras, but I doubt she'll investigate, and she can't get in unless I allow it. She'd know that the only people who could shut her out would be me, or Cyborg.

"So what's going on?" Clark asks, when I turn back to him.

"I told you, I'll handle it."

" _Bruce_." A sharp sigh. "Alright, well if you're not talking to me then what are we doing here?"

I lean back against the wall and reach for the switch I just finished installing the week before. "Training."

Clark looks confused for the half second before I flick the switch, before the whole room gets bathed in a red glow. Then he gasps, shoulders bowing and one knee buckling to bring him partially to the floor. I ignore the slight thrill of it all, moving forward off the wall and towards him, where he's standing roughly in the center of the practice mats. Probably out of pure habit; talking with me wouldn't have required us to be on the mats.

"Is— Is that…?"

"An artificial red sun light source," I fill in, glancing upwards towards the new lights. "Good to have confirmation that it works; I've been actively working on the calculations to replicate it for several weeks, but I had the idea for this when I was first building the Watchtower. It fell by the wayside to make time for other projects; more necessary ones."

I get to Clark, reaching down to grab the front of his costume and pull him up to his feet. He's pretty heavy, but he's not complete dead weight and he's not immovable at the moment, so that's a step above what I've dealt with from him in the past. He takes a second to balance, and I can see the strain in his expression, but he doesn't lash out at me. Impressive; most other heroes I know would strike when vulnerable out of pure instinct, regardless of who was in front of them.

"Why did you build this?" Clark asks, something low and dangerous in his voice and the flash of his eyes up to meet my gaze.

I study him, crossing my arms to just watch for a moment. "Training," I repeat. "Just because you're powerful doesn't mean you're invulnerable, and strength is _not enough_. You may be a powerhouse, Clark, but you have very little idea how to use any of it. I'm going to teach you."

"That's not an answer," Clark points out, straightening up a little bit. "Training doesn't require crippling, Bruce."

"This isn't crippling you," I say, giving into the urge to scoff. "It's removing your advantage. You need to be able to hold your own when you're stripped of your powers. I would take Lantern's ring if I trained him as well; not that he'd ever let me keep it for any length of time, or keep it from him. If I was crippling you, I'd be wearing that ring you gave me. Red sun radiation is only harmful to you in extreme doses, and even then you'd only need to sleep in direct sunlight for a few hours to recover."

Clark steps back, looking around the room. "You could have _asked_ ," he says, with a little bit of irritation to his tone. "Bruce, you can't just _do_ things like this without asking if it's alright first. If anyone ever got a hold of this—"

"Luthor already has the technology," I point out, "and these systems only unlock to my codes, voice, pass phrase, and DNA scan. In sync. Frankly, anyone capable of bypassing all of my security measures won't need this to bring you down." I pause for just a moment, and then tilt my head a fraction towards the door behind me. "If you are not interested in improving, you can leave. I am not forcing you to stay. But if you are, the door is locked and the cameras are disabled. No one will ever see or know, if you don't want them to."

The frown that gets aimed at me isn't particularly threatening, but it does light another small flutter of unease in the back of my chest. One I ignore, of course.

"Only you would think that getting beaten in training was some source of shame." Clark's hands find his hips, weight shifting from one foot to the other before he says, "For the record, I don't like this. You should have asked before you built it, and you _definitely_ should have asked before springing it on me. I also don't like the idea that you would do this to any of the rest of our team, and I _don't_ want to hear about it happening, which does _not_ mean do it behind my back. Consent and _respect_ , Bruce."

"I respect our teammates."

"As humans, Bruce, not just power. There's a difference." He frowns at me again, then shakes his head. "I have a hard time believing that you didn't make this out of some bid to redo our fight."

"It crossed my mind," I admit. "There's no point. You're not an alpha so even if I forced you into the bottom of a match it wouldn't actually accomplish anything. It's not like you're going to just give in; even if I did beat you, it wouldn't stop you from arguing with me or challenging me."

Which is frustrating . Knowing that there's no chance of getting what instinct demands is just supremely _frustrating._

Clark watches me for another moment, and then finally just sighs and drops his arms. "Alright. You went about this _completely_ the wrong way, but you're right. What did you have in mind?"

I resist the urge to confirm that I _knew_ I was right — he won't appreciate that — and just dip my head and uncross my arms instead. "Basics. I'm not teaching you any more until I'm sure you can throw a punch and take a fall. After that we can work on the rest."

"I can throw a punch," Clark protests, with just a bit of hurt pride to his voice.

I step closer, turning myself partially diagonal and raising my arms a touch, keeping my hands open and loose to deflect, not retaliate. "Prove it," I challenge. "Demonstrate good form and we'll move on."

Clark eyes my stance with a bit of mistrust, but then slips into one that's similar, if less practiced. "I'm getting the feeling I'm going to regret agreeing to this."

I give a small snort. "The next time Luthor has you powerless and you actually have the skill to defeat him anyway, you feel free to tell me that again, Clark."

"You're unbelievable," Clark responds, but he's got a little smile. "How about we do this, and then you tell me what's going on with you? Fair's fair, Bruce."

That drags a small grimace to my face, before I reluctantly admit, to myself, that he does have a point. "Deal," I agree. "Throw a good punch and learn how to fall, and then I'll talk."

A real smile, and then Clark shifts his weight and _strikes_ .

* * *

"So," Clark starts, back against the wall and sitting at my side. Not close enough to touch, but enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him, and my nose is full of a strange mix of his fake-alpha scent, sweat, and something that I think might actually be his natural scent, beneath the rest. I don't know precisely how he fakes the alpha scent, or how long it takes to wear off, so I can't accurately say.

I look over when he doesn't continue, taking a drink from my bottle of water before I offer it to him. He takes it, drinking a whole lot more before he passes it back, sweat cooling on his brow. The lights are normal again, so he's recovering. Still sore, I can see it in his little winces and at how he keeps shifting himself a little to relieve pressure on bruises, but he'll heal within a couple hours. Less, if he goes somewhere with sunlight.

"The next time we do this, I vote actual workout clothes instead of costumes. Agreed?" I grunt confirmation, tilting my head — my cowl's bunched at the back of my neck — back against the wall. "Maybe we can actually even plan it in advance, if you think you can manage to actually communicate with me." The soft smile makes it clear that it's just gentle teasing, and I let myself give a tiny smirk in response.

"I think I can manage that."

"We'll see," he says, a bit quieter. "Your track record isn't all that great, you know. You tend to _not_ talk with anybody, especially when it comes to making decisions. Like this one. Which, speaking of, you owe me a conversation. You promised."

This grunt is a little more sour, as I flick my eyes upwards in an aborted roll. "I did," I admit.

When I don't say anything more, he prompts, "About why you're in this mood, the one that has you snapping at all of our teammates?"

I consider lying to him, for just a moment, but push that thought away. I probably _could_ control myself well enough that his hearing wouldn't pick up that I was lying, but the chances are only mediocre and if he catches me at it he's going to be fairly upset, most likely. Or rather, very disappointed. Not that I fear his displeasure, or care, but it's easier to work beside him when he's not upset with me. Easier to get him to trust me in the future too. I suppose I'll just have to actually tell him the truth.

"It's you," I say bluntly, and then wait for the expected confusion. It arrives right on schedule.

"Me? What did I do?" Clark actually manages to sound genuinely hurt at the idea that he's done something that's irritated me, and the strangest bit is I think it's actually the truth. Most people would be defensive when accused, not guilty before even being told what it is they've done.

"You haven't done anything wrong," is my grudging answer. "I'm having some trouble managing my own instincts; I will get a handle on them and that will be that. You have nothing to worry about."

"Uh-huh. Well I _am_ worried, so how about a little bit more information than that, Bruce? Some specifics?"

I bite back a sigh, glancing over at him as I take another sip from the bottle of water. "It isn't the easiest thing to have you faking subservience to me, while knowing it isn't real. It would be easier if I didn't know that you weren't a real alpha, but since I do, some parts of my mind are backing up the parts of my instincts that see your shows as real, and I'm having some difficulty maintaining the attitude I should without starting to believe it's true. Would you like more than that, or will that explanation suffice?"

Clark just _looks_ at me, expectantly.

I pass him the water, then continue. "A portion of my attention is focused on analyzing the moments that your performance slips enough to prove it isn't real, and it's distracting how fake your scent is, now that I realize it. The combating part is insisting that you _did_ beat me, and therefore I owe you far more obedience than I've given. Neither side is how I would like to behave. I am working on controlling myself, and finding a middle ground, but it isn't something I can fix in a day. I am aware it is a problem; you are not the first to comment on my recent behavior."

"Yeah? Who else?"

"Alfred," I mutter. "Dick." He laughs, and I shoot him a sharp glance. "What?"

He smiles as he looks at me. "Just remembering your comment about lectures. Alfred, right?" When I don't answer, he leans a bit more back against the wall and tilts himself towards me. "Alright, and the rest of it?"

My eyes narrow as I look at him, _knowing_ what he's talking about but trying my best to deny that I do. "What rest of it?"

Clark gives me another of those _looks_ , something gently reprimanding and expectant all at once. "Bruce, remember the super-senses? I noticed it on accident, if it makes you feel better; I wasn't looking."

"You're too much of a boyscout to look," I counter, "even if people think you are vastly _more_ of one than you really are."

He smiles a little wider at that, not defending himself at all. "If it's just physical, that's fine. Flattering, actually. But I mean, if it's something you actually want, I'm not against it." A small shrug as I really _look_ at him, studying the openness to his expression and his body language. "Just so you know."

I stay silent, watching him, until he looks away from me and out at the rest of the room. Then, against _all_ of my better judgment, I ask, "What if I was?"

His smile still _looks_ innocent, but there's a little flare of heat to his eyes that I'm definitely not imagining, and this time it isn't heat vision. "Well, I remember someone saying that the cameras were off and the door was locked, and that no one ever needed to know if we didn't want them to. That seems like an opportunity to me, don't you think?"

It's… appealing. My fantasies about Clark haven't gone away; in fact, they've only really gotten worse after these weeks of little subservient gestures. Which direction things go tends to vary, but I find myself on the bottom more often than not in my mental pictures, which is — honestly — probably accurate, but not entirely welcome. It's not entirely unwelcome, either.

"One time?"

"Your call," Clark answers, then teases, "Might want to let the first time happen before you make plans about any other times though. What if I'm amazing?"

"What if you're awful?" I counter, automatically. He only laughs, though I'm not entirely sure if it's amusement at the idea, or just at how blunt I am. Probably the latter; Clark's not usually all that arrogant.

Clark reaches over, clasping my shoulder for just a moment as he smiles, honest and open. "Completely your choice, Bruce. I'm just offering the option, if you want it. Consent and respect, right?"

The heat of his touch is noticeable, even through my suit, and that distracts me for a moment. Just a moment. Then my mind turns to the idea of this encounter, to the practicalities, to the potential worst and best case scenarios. Clark, to his credit, just sits back, drinks the rest of the water, and lets me think.

Until, finally, I decide, "No. Not this time."

"But maybe next time?" Clark fills in, jumping back into the conversation like the silence was never there.

"Maybe next time," I concede. "With proper supplies, and prior conversations about logistics and details. We should arrange a time to meet and discuss it, as well as a time for our next training session. That should happen regardless of how negotiations go."

A soft laugh, and a smile that almost looks fond. "Only you could make this sound like a business meeting, Bruce. Want to decide that now, or later?"

"Can you remember all your prior commitments off the top of your head?" He pauses, winces. "Later then; I'll contact you."

"I could drop by the manor, if you want?"

It's my turn to wince, as I push off the ground and get to my feet. "I'd prefer if you didn't. Just keep your phone on you; I'll call."

Clark follows me to standing, and then towards the door when I head that direction. "If you don't, I'm just going to have to stop by and say hi to Alfred. I'm sure my mother's got some recipe or other she wants to share with him."

As threats go, it's not a bad one. Alfred and Martha Kent should never have been introduced to each other; if the downfall of the League ever comes, I swear it will be at their hands. Through pie and smiles, as insane as the idea seems. They would find a way, I'm sure. Or just guilt us all into resigning with disappointed looks and soft sighs. Hard to say which method would be more efficient.

I don't bother actually responding, keying in my codes to unlock the door with one hand while I reach back and tug my cowl back on with the other. When it opens, I step through before I turn back to Clark, who is just a couple steps from me.

"Next time," I say, as a promise.

He smiles. "Next time."


End file.
